


Drifting

by RimauSuaLay



Category: King Kong (2005)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-10
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RimauSuaLay/pseuds/RimauSuaLay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No matter what good reasons or motives I can write for my characters, I know nothing of my own soul right now.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting

Funny how I can't leave the cabin after all.

I stop at the door and look over my shoulder, just in case she's been waiting for this moment to speak up, to come back to life and tell me not to go. It's a ridiculously romantic thought, like I'm writing a script to a movie. As realistic as anything on stage.

Ann doesn't move, she simply stares at the wall. Like she has for days.

"If you need anything..." The words die on my lips. She won't come to me; there's nothing I can offer her right now.

Without finishing the sentence, I slip into the corridor and close the cabin door behind me.

The sea isn't calm tonight. The storm tossing our small ship like it's merely a piece of paper floating on the vast endlessness of raging waves, and I brace myself against the walls so I won't fall down. Have lost my sea legs somewhere in the jungle. The voyage here from New York feels like it happened ages ago, before I'd ever honestly thought of ancient creatures and constant death and fear. When the only heroes were simply characters on paper and the ladies needed to be saved from the monster.

Wanted to be saved.

Pushing the thought out of my mind, I keep lurching towards my own cabin. I don't want to think about whose home it used to be. So many of the crew were lost on the island, so many died senselessly.

The thought makes me stop for a moment, and the idea of going into that small cabin with all the memories of someone else's life suddenly makes me gag like no sea sickness has before.

Someone else's life, someone else's death. An incomprehensible death; only a memory in the minds of these few sailors with no gravesite where one could mourn.

There is only silence and solitude and thoughts that are now playing in my head, not even waiting for me to sit in the darkness before tormenting me.

It makes my stomach cramp again.

Quietly, I turn around and head for the deck. Fresh air, I need fresh air and maybe a drink. Carl probably has a stash somewhere, but he's the last person I want to see right now. It's safe to bet he's not out on the deck in a storm like this, a thought that makes me hurry my steps.

The spray hits my face as soon as I open the door, and for a moment it feels like drowning. I can't stop remembering the animal rage sending us all overboard and then the frantic fight for my life as the waves hit the cliffs so close to the monstrous ape. People screaming and drowning and dying all around me. Jimmy gasping for breath as I held his head above the water. Carl's voice full of maniacal glee. Ann pleading and yelling, repeating 'please' over and over again until her words were nothing but a meaningless blur.

I push the memory away and step full onto the deck, half expecting there to be a small crowd and feeling slightly baffled when I don't see anyone down here. Captain Englehorn is standing all alone on the bridge holding the rudder in a tight grip and staring into the horizon. I choose not to go up there.

As a storyteller, I know that labeling people as heroes and villains only leads into bad writing, but I can't help steering away from these people right now.

So I simply stand here and stare at the sunset that has lost all its beauty in my eyes.

"Driscoll."

I'm too tired to let that sudden sound of my name make me jump out of my skin, but I gaze at Baxter, who's slowly approaching with one hand firmly on the railing all the time. He looks exhausted, and reeks of cheap whisky. I wonder if Carl's keeping him happy with booze or if he went looking for the oblivion by himself.

I wonder when I stopped being Jack, said with the contempt only a movie star can manage and became Driscoll. There's even tentative friendliness in Baxter's voice.

"Bruce." Right now, am too tired to play games. "Some night, eh?"

"Some night." He nods and then pulls a small bottle from under his jacket. It's only half empty, gleaming in the last rays of the fading sunlight.

I shake my head. "No thanks." I don't drink. Not because I'm a law abiding citizen with high morals, but because right now I don't think there's enough alcohol in the whole world to make a difference in how I feel.

He doesn't seem to be offended, working on the stopper deftly and then downing half of what was left.

From the wild look on his face I'd say he's worked his way through at least one bottle already. If it brings him any kind of peace, good for him.

We stand here in silence, with nothing left to say. I revel in the darkness and the wind whipping around us.

The sudden sound of thunder in the distance startles Baxter, and he drops his bottle. It rolls across the deck and falls overboard.

"Fuck!" Baxter groans, but he's wise enough not to run after the bottle. It's easier to steal another from Carl than it is to risk death once again and try a futile stunt here in the near darkness.

His expletive sums up my thoughts exactly.

Even without his bottle, Baxter stays here, standing next to me without words. He startles every time the thunder roars, and I jump right along with him. It almost sounds like a tortured beast roaring out his pain or maybe a giant ape letting the world hear about his prize.

Maybe I should have scrambled after the bottle. Drinking couldn't make me feel more morose than this.

When it becomes too cold to stand here in wet clothes anymore, I nod at Baxter and stagger back inside. There are no answers in the vast endlessness of the sea, and I don't know which questions to ask even if there were.

The darkness simply reminds me of the look in Ann's eyes, the total emptiness, the lack of the laughter and joy that always seemed to be there when she looked at me over Carl's camera.

No words, no silent contemplation or subtext in the looks can bring her back now. She doesn't want to see me or even be in the same room with me, and no matter how I try, I can't understand why.

All my plans for a sweet comedy, a romantic play with a happy ending disappeared in the fog surrounding Skull Island.

* * *

There is someone sitting outside my cabin, and for a horrible moment I have a flashback to a crew member with his throat slit, lying in a puddle of his own blood. Then the person moves, undoubtedly hearing the sound of my footsteps, and I can breathe easily again.

It's only Jimmy.

"A bit late to be wandering around," I say, and then feel stupid for am I not wandering around as well?

He simply stares at me, his eyes wide. "I was asleep." Shaking his head, he tries again. "I thought..." A guilty glance at the door.

It's not difficult to understand what's driven him here, even though the poor bastard probably can't put it into words himself. Sometimes I wish I couldn't read things, that every person and every story were fresh and new and stayed the way they were told without my mind connecting the dots and turning every simple encounter into a tale.

Mr. Hayes didn't have to elaborate about the wild youth he'd found as a stowaway. The reality of the streets may be something I can never describe to an audience without it causing an outbreak of outrage and disgusted disbelief, but I do know things.

Now I sort of wish I didn't.

"You want to come in?" I ask and motion to the door. It's amazing he's out here instead of inside; the lock on the door is simple and certainly not one to keep someone like Jimmy out for long.

My question obviously shocks him, his eyes widening. "Yeah." He doesn't even think about it, following me inside without a word. Then after a moment of silence he mutters, "Thanks," as if he isn't used to using the word.

I pull off my wet jacket and look around for a place where it'll dry. There aren't many things in here; just the small cot, a table with two chairs and a sailor's chest I haven't opened and don't intend to. After spreading the jacket over the back of one of the chairs, I turn back to Jimmy, wishing I'd blackmailed some of that whisky from Carl as well.

We both could use some.

He looks at me as if he has no idea what to do or say. On the island it was simply a group of men trying to survive. Now we are back in the real world where young shipmates and known playwrites have nothing to discuss.

"We'll be in New York in five days." He looks around furtively. It's painfully obvious that he's here for something and it's not small talk he's after.

I nod anyway. This young man saved my life from the giant bugs and the least I can do is to try to have a conversation with him. "Yeah." Home sweet home.

There's an awkward silence, and I think it's possible that we'll just stand here and circle the issue forever if one of us isn't strong enough to actually say something that really matters. I don't know if it's proper for me to bring it up, but I can't stand the suffocating silence for long.

If I wanted that, I could have stayed with Ann.

"This... used to be Mr. Hayes's cabin, right?" It's not even a real question. Captain Englehorn said as much as I brought my few belongings here. The typewriter looks out of place on the table.

Jimmy stares at me and for a moment he looks wild. I've never seen such a frantic look on a human before. It's like he's an untamed beast cornered by mere words and is ready to either run for his life or lash out at me.

The only difference between a man and a beast is the trace of sadness mixed with the fear.

"Yeah," he manages to squeeze out, as if admitting even that little is almost too much for him.

It brings back everything we couldn't leave behind, the memories that would best be left alone, and I try to forget the way the first mate was killed before our very eyes. The sight will probably be with me forever, as will be Jimmy's horrified screams, but I don't want to think about them right now.

"Is there something I can do for you?" I ask quietly. There's very little I can offer, but I have the feeling that whatever I can give, I will.

Jimmy stands there in silence for a long moment, wrapped in misery so obvious that anyone could see it.

I wait, wondering if I should be already frightened to hear whatever he has to say. It will probably be blunt, straightforward without any intrigue behind floral speech unlike Carl's endless explanations and excuses.

"Can I stay here?" Jimmy's eyes are luminous as he whispers the plea, not looking like a trapped animal anymore, but young, impossibly young and maybe even more innocent than he's ever really been.

The implications of his words choke me, and I wonder if I should just offer the cabin to him, find my way somewhere else and let Jimmy stay here and mourn the only person who ever treated him well.

Damn Englehorn! He shouldn't have brought me here in the first place. There are enough empty bunks here on this miserable little ship and I could have slept in any of them. I don't mind sharing a cabin; after spending the whole voyage in a cage, a real cabin with a real bed would be luxury.

My silence makes him tremble, and before I can curse my stupidity and tell him he can stay for as long as he needs to, he steps closer to me, repeating, "Please, Mr. Driscoll. Can I stay?" He wrings his hands together, a movement of quiet desperation.

I don't know why it hits me so hard; I've seen that gesture hundreds of times on stage, written the description of it on countless of pages from where actors and actresses have taken it and transformed mere text into heart breaking performances in front of an audience.

It's never been as pure and painful as right here, where neither the pain nor the need in Jimmy's eyes is practiced and the desperation thrums around him like a heartbeat.

Still, I can find no way to let sound escape around the lump in my throat.

Jimmy looks down at his hands, the callused fingers that are clenched together so hard it has to hurt. "_Please..._," he mutters, sounding defeated.

Of course you can stay! Please do. I can sleep on the floor and imagine I'm safe and not surrounded by insane natives or giant bugs or death and destruction. Words have always been my forte, on paper and said out loud, my mind conjuring up proper passages even as I breathe, but nothing comes out.

Even mere thinking hurts.

"I..." Squaring his shoulders, Jimmy reaches out so fast I can't follow the movement. His hand hesitates against my chest for a moment and then moves down to grab my belt.

It's a line even a thief and a street rat won't cross, and I'm not afraid even for a moment that he'll actually throw me out of this cabin that should still be Mr. Hayes's. I simply stare at him, my mind unable to work.

Then Jimmy steps closer and with one unbelievably graceful movement kneels in front of me.

"Let me stay. Please. I'll make it worth your while."

I hear the words and feel his fingers cleverly open the clasp of my belt and it's so preposterous that I can't move for a moment. This is not the first time this has happened to me, but usually the ones throwing themselves at me are young and female and desperate to get my approval on casting them in one of my plays.

"I'll do anything. Anything." And as if to prove his words, he's pulling down my fly, working his clever fingers inside my pants like a pro. "Just don't make me leave..."

Even with the giant ape sleeping below us in the cargo hold, I know I'm the worst kind of a monster here, and that thought jolts me out of this insane stupor. I slap my hand on top of his to stop him from going any further. "No!"

Breathing hard through his mouth, he looks up at me, and I can see nothing but awful fear in his eyes. He's back to looking like a cornered animal and I feel lost and nothing will ever feel right again.

"Christ, Jimmy..."

"_Please!_" He leans closer and nuzzles his cheek against my groin, the touch more practiced than most smiles I've seen working in the show business. "I wanna do this..."

That's utter bullshit and I fight against the urge to tell him that. "No, Jimmy. Christ, no!" I touch his cheek and tilt his head up so he can see that I really mean it. "You don't have to do any of this. Not now." Not anymore.

His eyes are full of disbelief, and I can see he's starting to shiver. "I wanna stay here."

My knees give in, and I slide down next to him. "You can stay." I've seen death and horrors most men couldn't even imagine and the soft desperate whisper is the thing that brings me down to my knees. "You can stay and you don't have to do anything. Please believe me. You don't have to do this."

I don't need the solitude and the silence and the constant stream of thoughts that are driving me absolutely insane. I can share the small cabin with this young man who's lost so much more than I have. No one should have to whore themselves for a little comfort as simple as companionship.

"Mr. Driscoll..." He shakes his head as if he still can't believe what I just said.

I lower my hand on his shoulder, the intimacy of holding my palm against his cheek too much. "Call me Jack." I owe him my life and this is all I can offer to him.

Jimmy smiles a little, the expression brittle and looking so wrong on his face. He should be full of fire, a sassy creature who will go down fighting. Not looking at me like this. "Jack." It's an exhale that sounds awfully like a prayer. "Can I stay?"

"You can stay as long as you want to," I mutter, and the absurdity of this moment hits me. Two desperate men huddled on the floor, holding onto each other as if the world will end if we let go.

The strong arms come around me, and Jimmy doesn't seem to find anything odd about pressing his face on my neck and just holding me. I'm not used to touching as easily as this, always self conscious of the proximity of others, but this simple touch takes away some of the pain and I revel in it.

It's the least complicated my life's been in a long time.

Jimmy's lips form a word against the soft skin of my neck, and even though there is no sound, I think he's thanking me. Over and over again, his lips repeat the words, his breath caressing me, and it takes me a moment to realize that there are no more words and only the touch.

Kisses.

"No..." I groan and try to pull away, but he's holding me in a tight grip. This is not right, he shouldn't be doing this.

"I want to," Jimmy breathes against my neck, and I can't tell if it's just a lie. "Please let me do this." He emphasizes his words by moving his hands, sliding them up and down my back.

I squirm so that I can look into his face and steel myself to assume the character I'm comfortable with; the author, the man who is in charge.

There is still desperation in his eyes, pupils so dilated there's only the slightest rim of blue circling the endless darkness. But there is much more, so much more and I can't read most of those emotions no matter how I interpret feelings onto pages for a living.

So many years spent with theater people and those who seem to have their own code of honor and morals; where lust was always simple and not forbidden even though no word of such touches or even loving were ever mentioned out loud. I never saw myself capable of such desire or actions, but right now this is the one real thing in the ocean of pain.

Madness, yes, but not the kind that shuts me out of something I thought was pure and beautiful. The fear and weariness so evident between us has nothing to do with the terror of flight, the fear of losing yourself. It's more a promise, as if the total loss of control is the best thing to happen right now.

Loss of self and loss of thoughts, and I can't let go this easily.

"You don't..." It's hard to say it so that it sounds convincing when the strong hands are so knowing, so easily slipping under my shirt and touching my skin. "Jimmy! You don't have to do this."

He stills for just a moment and grinds out, "I want to."

This time it's not a lie.

I'm so tired of being strong and having a goal and I just want to get swept away by this no matter how wrong it might be. Hesitantly, I wrap my arms around him and for a single moment it's a simple hug between comrades. Survivors.

Then his hands tilt my head to the side and his lips are back on my neck, this time mouthing my skin like he's starving for the taste. Heat flashes through me, not the gentle burn of seduction but something more primal.

I shouldn't want this, but my body reacts without any hesitations.

Jimmy is touching me again, opening my pants. His fingers sneak in and touch me and I don't even want to stop him again. He doesn't stop when he feels my dick, my hardening dick, and certainly doesn't seem to be surprised that that damn treacherous organ actually wants it, like it has a mind of its own, sucking all coherency from me.

It just feels good and I let it, I let him touch me, wrap his fist around my dick and make me stop thinking.

I'm used to romancing a lady; wining and dining before getting to escort her home and kiss her good night. Taking it slow is the best kind of a sweet agony.

This is nothing like that. No promises, no flowers. No plans beyond this moment and definitely no sweet nothings whispered out loud. It's flesh hitting flesh, Jimmy's hand so knowing, so clever and I can't do anything but to hang on and follow his lead.

"Jimmy..." I can't just lie here and let him touch me like this! Only a moment ago he was in front of me, on his knees and I don't want to even think what it really means. "I want to..."

I don't want to. Never thought I'd even contemplate it. But right now I have to and maybe need to, I can't just let him do this to me like I'm paying for it. Jimmy's eyes are so blue, so vulnerable and my hands are moving before I can even think.

Hot, hard, and Jimmy lets out a strangled whimper, looking like he can't believe we are really doing this, touching each other. I can't believe it either, but here I am, squirming on the floor, holding another man's dick in my hand.

"Yeah. Whatever you want," he says, and licks my throat again, his breath making me shiver. "Whatever you... Fuck! Whatever..."

Such an insane promise, but I don't know what I want and maybe it's a blessing. He's young, but he's not innocent and his movements are more fluid than mine, his touch more knowing.

"This is just fine." My hands are trying to work on his pants and I'm making a damn mess of it. No fluffy skirts, no knickers, just hard flesh and coarse fabric and my hand slips on his slick skin.

There is no script, and even if there were I wouldn't know how to act. I'm a writer, I observe and then turn reality into a fantasy that will in turn become reality. I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore, and it frightens me more than anything.

I want to be a good guy, to be a gentleman who doesn't take what's offered. I don't want to use him, but it's impossible to push Jimmy away. So yes, I use him and revel in the idea that maybe he's using me too.

Something tears, and I don't know what it is and don't really care. Strong hands lift my hips as if I weigh nothing and then my bare ass hits the floor.

Jimmy's weight pushes me down and I'm sure there should be blinding terror grabbing me any moment now, but the fear is absent, no room left for anything but the impossible pleasure of his callused hand still moving on my dick.

My legs part, to hold him closer still, and it's a sweaty wrestling of mutual pleasure, uncoordinated jerking in each other's hands.

"Oh please, please, _please_..." The words deteriorate into moans and I don't know if they're coming from my mouth or Jimmy's. I can barely breathe, and his lips are still pressed against my neck and _fuck_ it must be a reflection of my inner dialogue, 'cause all I can think of is coming and I will beg if it makes him squeeze me tighter.

I can't think anymore; there's nothing in the whole world but his touch on me, the sweaty slick motion of his fist moving on my dick and I arch to his touch helplessly, mind dissolving slowly as the pleasure takes over.

Jimmy never stops moving his hips. "Yeah..." He grinds against my hip, erratic movements guiding his hardness against the wet trails of semen on my skin, bumping against my spent dick.

This must be how it feels like to be fucked. I lie still, completely boneless and my mind is still gone somewhere, for there are no thoughts.

Only instinct. Slowly, I move my hands to Jimmy's ass and pull him closer.

"Fuck yeah!" he growls against my neck, teeth sinking into my skin as he jerks uncontrollably and I can feel his dick spurting all over my belly.

There is a silence, broken by harsh breaths but no words.

I'm too used to the modern luxuries to be truly comfortable on the floor, no matter how sated my body feels right now, and before long I push myself up. It's strange to realize that I still have my shirt on, bunched up under my arms and soggy with semen. Gingerly, I pull it off before getting to my feet.

The sound of the shirt hitting the floor is uncomfortably loud. It's like a spell's been broken, and I'm suddenly brought back to reality from a sated stupor, standing in the middle of this small cabin staring at Jimmy, who's staring right back at me with uncomprehending eyes.

It's too late for a scene, and I'm so tired. I want to go to bed and don't want to talk about this and find explanations or excuses.

"You still want to stay?" I ask, wiping my wet fingers on my pants. God, I really need a bath.

Jimmy nods. "Please." It's a hesitant plea with no conviction that he'll be allowed to stay now that he has nothing more to give.

The thought alone makes me feel sick. It makes me feel old. "Come on then." I walk to the bunk and slide between the blankets, not caring about the smell of sex on my skin and the fact that it really isn't fit for two people to sleep in. Nobody's sleeping on the floor tonight.

I stare at the ceiling as Jimmy scrambles up and then pads around the cabin hesitantly, turning off the lights and hiding us both in the darkness. It's easier when I can't see anything.

He squirms next to me carefully, almost as if he can't believe I actually invited him in, and I simply wrap the blanket around the both of us, grateful for the fact that the bunk is bolted to the wall and I for one won't fall on the floor during the night.

Apparently the storm hasn't stopped raging yet, the ship swinging up and down the waves. Funny, I hadn't noticed the sickening movement while lying on the floor. Now it's hard to miss, and I pull Jimmy closer just in case the next wave throws the ship sideways.

"I'm sorry."

I blink at the whisper, wondering if he really meant me to hear it. The tension in Jimmy's body tells me he's waiting for a response, and so I mutter back, "It's all right."

Maybe I should apologize as well, but am too weary to think of such words to convey just how wrong it was not to refuse this and how it wasn't his fault. No matter what good reasons or motives I can write for my characters, I know nothing of my own soul right now.

Jimmy relaxes against me. "It's just that he told me I don't have to... Not anymore... That..." His voice gets thicker with every word, and it's not surprising when he swallows whatever he wanted to say.

I know what he means anyway. "Yeah." Poor bastard. Mr. Hayes had his hands full with this one, but he did all right. No matter how Jimmy slipped back to whatever he's gone through, this isn't a street rat who has his back against the wall. He's a young man with a human mind and human emotions.

I try not to think, but my mind is a whirlwind of all the lost souls, all those killed and damaged on the island, those who don't have the fire anymore and those who seem to have given up on life.

At least Jimmy isn't one of those.

He's lying here in silence, but it's not forced, not an uncomfortable silence. I can smell the salty smell of the sea and semen mingling, and there is no way of even pretending I'm where I guess I'm supposed to be; offering comfort to someone else.

I have the awful feeling that it's not my part in this play anymore.

"You can stay here for the rest of the voyage." It comes out before I can really think, and I'm not sure if I'm telling Jimmy it's all right to do this or begging him not to leave me in here alone with my thoughts. Either way, I don't want to explain what I mean. Don't really want to know.

There's no hesitation in Jimmy's voice as he mutters, "Yeah. Thank you."

Then he's tensing again, trying not to breathe too hard to reveal the sobs and I hold him in my arms as he cries softly against my chest. I'm numb all over, unable to do anything but ground him here with my body.

Something in this moment makes me want to mutter soft words, promise that everything will be all right, that I don't want to see him hurt, or God forbid, hurt him more. I want to tell him I will make things better, that I'll look after him, and the mere thought makes my chest ache.

I can make no such promises. The hero never rescues anyone, and the tales never have a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written January 2006. Revised March 2010.


End file.
